Margaret Mead's got nothing on me.....
I have decided to consider my experiences from that of a anthropological standpoint. It makes it all the more amusing to look back on, that way. So, the scene: I am a human buffet table. Bowl of cherries at the Y of my crotch, lower abdomen piled high with grapes and strawberries, chocolate frosting on my breasts, a bowl of whipped cream in one hand; chocolate kisses in the other. Lying atop a black vinyl table, I am there for the use of the crowd. There are several types of people you encounter here, and the differences are so distinct and fascinating.
There is the couple who is interested in me. The wife, about 40, whispers in my ear, admiring the lucious hint of youth contained in my slender, decorated body, later trailing her tongue accross the frosting, nibbling cherries, and watching. Her husband asks my permission before he touches or taste anything. I appreciate this. It's respectful, and also a clear indication of interest. Later, they sit nearby and watch while others come up and sample, smiling, and whispering to each other. They are frequent visitors the first half of the night.
Then there are the grateful men. The come up, asking if I need anything, offering to feed me from myself (by the end of the night i can barely stand the thought of these foods). They take, they tease, they smile at me, they thank me afterwards. One hesitantly begins to take off my shoe, when i nod, he continues, so easily satisfied. i wonder what he would think if he could see my feet in the light of day, covered in battle scars.
The leering men come, run their hands along my curves saying "oh baby". They attempt, sloppily, to kiss me, but I turn my head away. They may eat off me, but not of me. That, I shall reserve for the senualists.
Those who take their time, who don't even get to the food until they've been at the table a few minutes. One stands out in particular, he was the only one who really got to me. This one did it right...using chocolate to cover me he took his time, running his hands along every line, taking his time at my neck, one arm underneath my back, so that i was arching up to meet him. When he was done, i was doing so of my own accord. Lovely man, lovely. And the compliments were real on that one.
The elusive dominants. One gentlemen, tall, black with spider fingers visits frequently, never making eye contact. To him I grant him the award for "most proper use of a buffet table". I'm not saying i do not prefer the erotic experience of the liger walking by and petting me with a fork, or the lovely young woman who melted the chocolate in her mouth before putting it on me, but you wouldn't do that to a regular buffet table, would you?
Ah yes, and how can you forget the chocolate cock? I really must learn not to bite the things that go in my mouth....this one being filled with a white chocolate cream....i was fighting hard to keep it out of my throat (the filling, that is) and feeling ridiculously humiliated and preoccupied with my own silent struggle while a group of men at my head had their amusement with a can of redi-whip. Nelson then went about deep-throating the cock- most impressively I might add. An impomptu cock-sucking lesson seemed to be taking place briefly, and then one the greatful men, noticing the dilapidated condition of the (my) cock (ha!) and perhaps the distess in my face removed it and gave me a sip of something alcoholic and delighfully bitter. It was the ones who placed bitter substances on my lips that i loved the most. sugar can be...nauseating.
Permission to get up. I don't know that I was aware that I was waiting for permission, but I clearly was, as it was a great relief to be given such. It could not have come from anyone else, i suppose. Took a long time to get up. It's amazing how exhausting it is to lie still. (and painful the next day, i might add) A younger man who reminded me for all the world of a kitten took it upon himself to clean me up. Barely able to stand on his own I floated about in my head as he gently and thouroughly wiped away much of the chocolate covering my skin. when i got home, the water ran brown and red, and i found that i still had chocolate in my nose. yes, IN my nose.
I also have the most fabulously bruised knuckles. Swollen, red, tinged with purple. It pleases me even more to know that there is a matching set out there. You know you're playing a good game if you have to check and make sure you hand still works after each blow.
There is the couple who is interested in me. The wife, about 40, whispers in my ear, admiring the lucious hint of youth contained in my slender, decorated body, later trailing her tongue accross the frosting, nibbling cherries, and watching. Her husband asks my permission before he touches or taste anything. I appreciate this. It's respectful, and also a clear indication of interest. Later, they sit nearby and watch while others come up and sample, smiling, and whispering to each other. They are frequent visitors the first half of the night.
Then there are the grateful men. The come up, asking if I need anything, offering to feed me from myself (by the end of the night i can barely stand the thought of these foods). They take, they tease, they smile at me, they thank me afterwards. One hesitantly begins to take off my shoe, when i nod, he continues, so easily satisfied. i wonder what he would think if he could see my feet in the light of day, covered in battle scars.
The leering men come, run their hands along my curves saying "oh baby". They attempt, sloppily, to kiss me, but I turn my head away. They may eat off me, but not of me. That, I shall reserve for the senualists.
Those who take their time, who don't even get to the food until they've been at the table a few minutes. One stands out in particular, he was the only one who really got to me. This one did it right...using chocolate to cover me he took his time, running his hands along every line, taking his time at my neck, one arm underneath my back, so that i was arching up to meet him. When he was done, i was doing so of my own accord. Lovely man, lovely. And the compliments were real on that one.
The elusive dominants. One gentlemen, tall, black with spider fingers visits frequently, never making eye contact. To him I grant him the award for "most proper use of a buffet table". I'm not saying i do not prefer the erotic experience of the liger walking by and petting me with a fork, or the lovely young woman who melted the chocolate in her mouth before putting it on me, but you wouldn't do that to a regular buffet table, would you?
Ah yes, and how can you forget the chocolate cock? I really must learn not to bite the things that go in my mouth....this one being filled with a white chocolate cream....i was fighting hard to keep it out of my throat (the filling, that is) and feeling ridiculously humiliated and preoccupied with my own silent struggle while a group of men at my head had their amusement with a can of redi-whip. Nelson then went about deep-throating the cock- most impressively I might add. An impomptu cock-sucking lesson seemed to be taking place briefly, and then one the greatful men, noticing the dilapidated condition of the (my) cock (ha!) and perhaps the distess in my face removed it and gave me a sip of something alcoholic and delighfully bitter. It was the ones who placed bitter substances on my lips that i loved the most. sugar can be...nauseating.
Permission to get up. I don't know that I was aware that I was waiting for permission, but I clearly was, as it was a great relief to be given such. It could not have come from anyone else, i suppose. Took a long time to get up. It's amazing how exhausting it is to lie still. (and painful the next day, i might add) A younger man who reminded me for all the world of a kitten took it upon himself to clean me up. Barely able to stand on his own I floated about in my head as he gently and thouroughly wiped away much of the chocolate covering my skin. when i got home, the water ran brown and red, and i found that i still had chocolate in my nose. yes, IN my nose.
I also have the most fabulously bruised knuckles. Swollen, red, tinged with purple. It pleases me even more to know that there is a matching set out there. You know you're playing a good game if you have to check and make sure you hand still works after each blow.